


May We Stay Lost On Our Way Home

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, explicit content, post-episode 19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:44:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no party<br/>or resounding horn.</p><p>But we do have<br/>a song we play<br/>when we march to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May We Stay Lost On Our Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are absolutely appreciated. This is just a bit of, hmm, how shall I put it - silliness? I use that a lot to describe what I post. Oh well.

“We’re gonna fuck shit _up_.”

That’s the ending to the moment of quiet, after the radiofeed’s last crackle had silenced the Reds and Blues. The room, even for its dilapidated state, hums with its own life.

Grif’s statement is one rallied on by Church’s letter, who read it so true and full—with the correct vulgarity expected—that even the laziest among them was spirited.

Tucker liked the structure. Especially the _post-script_ , oh, that was the best part. He’d suggested it, of course. Well, he and Church at the same time; he’d smiled when it’d happened.

It’s nice having your best friend back and knowing you’re not gonna die anytime soon.

“Well, that went smoothly,” Wash comments, craning his head to Church. “Excellent delivery.”

“Oh, Wash, I’m gonna have to write in my journal about how nice you are.” Church’s hologram turns slightly pink where his cheeks would be under the visor. He laughs, once, an almost prideful one.

“So who wants a tour of the Rebel base?” Tucker’s question has an underlying motive. Not that he’ll admit it. He grins.

“Ah oh I do!” is the answer of Caboose. He moves forward beside Tucker to stage-whisper, “I think Church might too, but he is too shy to ask.”

“Caboose, you were at this base already.” Tucker sighs, tilting his head down. “If it wasn’t clear I meant Wash.”

“I get it.” Nod of a head from the Blue soldier—one which never signalled understanding. “You want _alone time_ with Wash.”

“What? I never said that! When did I say that?” Tucker turns to Church, insistent in his tone. “I never said that.” To Wash. “Like, ever, did I? I didn’t. I never even said that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s just Caboose being Caboose.” There’s an expected lull in the conversation until Church snaps up to the height of Tucker’s head. “Though you did sound pretty defensive there, _Tucker_.”

“Did not.”

“Oh, oh yeah, yeah, I know buddy. It’s tough. Recline back, dip your toes in the pool down below the base.”

“That’s poisonous.”

“It’s good for your skin.”

“It is?”

“Yep.”

Tucker stares at Church. “You’re lying.”

“Yep.”

He sighs.

That’s when the others begin to leave, one by one, Red by Blue, leader by leader. Tucker watches them all go. All _living_.

And because of his plan. (Maybe also the lieutenants, but hey—his plan was fuckin’ _awesome_ ). He decides to go sulk in the back, like, you know, be really cool and mysterious.

“I’m proud of you.”

He turns.

Agent Washington hadn’t left, not quite as Tucker had assumed after standing at the back of what, apparently, was the meagre home of communications of Kimball’s that served once, for the previous leaders, as contact with the UNSC. A war room.

No more.

“I know, I know,” Wash starts, like Tucker’s doubting him, doubting his integrity, “You don’t want a cheesy leader speech. I just needed you to know.”

“It was easy, dude.” Tucker waves his left hand, not holding a gun now—something that seemed so odd with the recent events. He waits for the sarcastic reply from Wash. It doesn’t come, so he adds, “I mean, if you think I did it just to look cool you’re wrong. I did it to look cool _and_ come back with a sweet story.”

There’s the laugh he was looking for. (He’s never heard something so light yet scornful).

“So you think a suicide mission has the likelihood of a story after?” Wash crosses his arms. “I like the way you think.”

“Damn right you do.” Tucker rips off his helmet with a compression of air and a hasty _click_ , so he can show off his exuberant grin; grin of a small victory, of a beginning of something better and stronger, of knowing the enemy and knowing what must be done. Soon, though. They have a day or so.

“Is the offer for the tour still up?”

“We gotta eat first, dude,” Tucker starts to leave and thumps Wash’s shoulder. “Before Grif gets into the tacos.”

“They have tacos? Really?”

“Honestly I think some of the Rebel budget went more into food than anything, though that might be ‘cause of Grif and shit.”

Tucker might just have a metaphorical box in his head reserved to protect the memory of Wash’s chuckles.

“Lead the way,” Wash says, walking beside Tucker at a comfortable pace, “ _Captain_.”

“Jeez, I might be a higher rank than you.” He kicks at the ground and leads the way out, past the hard ground and gaping hole in the middle of the facility, up around and curling past their quarters, though he does stop there briefly, continues without a word.

The mess hall has hardly changed since they’d gone; their table, smack in the middle, is occupied by all the Reds and Blues and as many Rebel soldiers as possible, except for two pertinent spaces left empty, Church in his glowing form with his legs spread out over the surface, chatting to Smith; Kimball, who rarely made appearances, was in deep conversation with Carolina. Nobody has their helmets on, and Tucker watches, with a breath of relief, as Wash removes his own. Bruised, but bruises heal. Bruises mean you have been battered and you will recover.

“The cook’s the best around, I swear,” Tucker says, grabbing a tray—so oddly familiar—and ensuring Wash copied all his movements, pointing out here and there what was the best, what Grif was going to end up finishing by the end of the day.

“So you’ve finally joined us.” Carolina smirks, looking up, her hair cut in a short bob. Still a fearsome red, though.

The New Republic base certainly wasn’t cosy in its design, but it’s the first time Tucker’s felt home since Blood Gulch. They sit without a pause in conversation.

“And you remember the Bear Man? The Meta? _Well, get this_. We do that same tackle except it takes Sarge, Simmons, _and_ me to take this guy down. He was no beast, but I _can_ tell you, I punched him in the fucking throat.” Grif, no doubt, told the stories best (and with the most embellishment, if at times completely skewing facts)—he was leaning forward, hands moving enthusiastically with his descriptions. “He was red meat after that.”

“It’s ‘dead meat’,” Simmons corrects, without missing a beat.

“More like you’re gonna be dead meat.” Grif is just as fast. “And then, _then_ , we run off to try and get the jump on Felix—asshole, isn’t he—” he adds, with a nod, to the lieutenants and other soldiers gathered “—But then! But _then_. He knows we’re there and he blows us up, but I get up and try to crawl, and _Carolina_ has this massive fucking gun, and then Felix is about to get the fuckin’ jump on Tucker after stabbing him—”

Out of the corner of Tucker’s eye, between bites, he notices a flash of discomfort on Wash’s face. “Dude, I’m fine. Seriously. I got a sweet scar.”

“—and you know, Felix is gonna _shoot_ Tucker—”

Wash slams his fork down. Tucker places a hand on Wash’s arm.

“—and Carolina, with her _fuckin’ gun bigger than my dick_ , aims it at him and then he’s fuckin’ _busted_ like _twice_. And then she’s all like, _bring it down, boys_ and I swear she’s never been cooler. It was a team effort. I had the alien gun and went all out on the radio jammer.” With a click of his fingers and a sigh, he finishes with, “And there you have it, kids. That’s how we Reds and Blues saved the day.”

Bitters rolls his eyes and head following the movement. “Right, sir, let’s not forget _us_ lieutenants. We’ve been over this.”

“That was the boring part, though. Besides, Tucker was gonna be fine. So was Wash. He hobbled over and collapsed right beside Tucker, anyway.” Grif stretches, knocking Simmons in the side of the head, a _ow, watch it, you fat fuck!_ spurting out quicker than a yelp. “Tacos, Bitters?”

This is the quiet way Grif shows his thanks.

Kimball won’t stop looking at Tucker. Her gaze is intense and like an x-ray, and this one is all that plus a smidgeon of pride.

She smiles, a scar at the top of her upper lip not drawing away from its beauty.

“More stories?” Grif’s voice travels down the table as he stands. “In a minute. Matthews, I hate to ask this—not because I care, but because I hate your fucking voice—but you need to go get my secret stash of Oreos.”

“Sir! Sir, on it.”

“Secret stash of Oreos? Why didn’t I know about it?” Simmons’ squeaky voice pipes up. “You always used to tell me.”

Dexter Grif sighs, mournfully. “There are some secrets I’ve had to keep from you, Simmons. _Some of them are my darkest_.”

Wash snorts and Tucker quickly removes the hand he had resting on him; not like he, you know, meant to leave it there. No way. The figure of Church flashes in front of him and sits on the edge of his meal tray, pretending to stamp his feet in the mush of peas.

“Real mature, Church.” Tucker picks up his utensil and stabs one or two perfectly cut hexagons, holds them up to Church’s helmet. “Who needs crackers when you get carrot? Do you want carrot, Church? Do you want some carrot? Here comes the aeroplane.”

“Hey, fuck features, I’m not a baby.” He waves his arms against the invading fork. “I’m a fuckin’ _AI._ ”

“Then don’t fuck with my food.”

“I’ll fuck with it all I want,” Church replies, stepping up to air-hump the stew to the side. “Look at me, Tucker. Fuckin’ your food.”

“I swear to god,” Tucker hears Wash mutter beside him, grasping his forehead. The blue hanging light hollow out his cheeks, but bring out his freckles so that Tucker spends a few too many seconds looking.

Not that it’s hard to peel his eyes away to return to fucking Leonard Church trying to make artificial intelligence stew-babies with his lunch.

“Somehow I don’t think the Director ever anticipated his work amounting to this,” Wash muses, eyes flicking to Tucker on his left and back down to Church, now not engaging in juvenile antics.

He shrugs, cobalt glimmer brighter than ever. “Doesn’t get better than this. Bringing down corrupt assholes. You know, it’s kinda funny…” Church trails off, turning around to look at Carolina, spinning back to glance between Wash and Tucker. “I have memories of the Director and the Chairman meeting at functions. Before Project Freelancer really lapsed out of public view and started, actually.”

“Oh?” Wash leans forward. “And what are they like?”

Church _um_ s and _ah_ s. “The Director really had a chip on his shoulder about this _Malcolm,_ the Chairman’s name. Like, they knew each other when they were pretty young, and apparently all Leonard—as he went by then, y’see—did was insult the guy’s appearance. Like, all the time. Every time. Called him ‘thumb’ this and ‘bare titty’ that. Poor guy. No wonder he hated the Director and joined up with Charon Industries.”

Tucker can’t stop laughing except to stare at Wash.

“Yep, tell me about it. I got all the best bits of the Director, don’t you think?” Church holds out his arms. “I get the good looks and wit. Too bad the old motherfucker lost it.”

“You’re speaking of him fondly.” Wash stops to stare at Church.

“What? Want me to spend all day going on about the torture? Give it a break. _Pfft_.”

The unspoken comfort Tucker offers, touching Wash’s elbow, is hoped to be enough by him.

“Right. Do you have any similar memories?”

“What, the Director being a dick? Heaps.”

“Happy ones, I mean.”

“Oh.” Church seems genuinely surprised, then. “Happy?”

“Happy.”

(A word has never looked that good dropping from Wash’s smooth lips).

“I…a few.” Church stops for a second, looks down. “Yeah. Carolina, really little. With Allison and the Director. They used to hold both her hands and lift her up, let her walk through the air. The Director had a pussy arm, though, and it was mostly Allison holding Carolina up.” He flickers for a second. “When Allison came back between skirmishes she used to have pizza night with Carolina and braid her hair. She grew it out just for those days.

“The Director used to take Carolina out every Friday and buy her a new book and pair of shoes for running, because she used to get them muddy. It rained a lot. Her favourite colour was black. The Director’s favourite colour was blue.” There’d be a Church-esque grin under there, for sure, if Church had a human body. “Go figure. The Director’s favourite days were the weekends because then Carolina used to spend them in his study and watch him read.

“Except she was never quiet, she always wanted to know what it was. What he was reading. What it was about. He always answered, always told her. Told her how to frame hypotheses and she was fucking eight years old.”

There’s something Tucker would say then but he can’t. All he’s ever been told about are the shitty bits, the fucked up Director, the trauma Wash went through.

“Oh, he wasn’t perfect, don’t get that idea,” Church adds strongly. “Guy could yell a fucking leg off. But you know. Good memories contain themselves. Don’t let the shitty ones ruin them, right?”

“Deep.” Tucker pokes Church’s chest, or tries to, but it goes right through him. “You’re a real philosopher, dude.”

“Damn right I goddamn am.”

Wash’s face in contorted in an odd sort of frown-smile, like he’s not supposed to be smiling, so Tucker says, “You’re allowed to smile, man. It’s okay. We’re not gonna die yet.”

“Very positive outlook you’ve got there,” Wash says with the best smile Tucker’s ever seen, and he swears he doesn’t bow down and say thank you to Wash’s parents for having the really good genes to give Wash those pink lips.

“It’s Christmas here on Chorus tomorrow. Going by Earth’s time.”

“Is that true?”

 _Wash is actually believing him then_.

“No fucking way. But you know what? We should like, make a day on Chorus. For all of the shit that went down.”

“I actually like that idea.” Wash purses his mouth. “I suppose we should confer with Kimball and Doyle.”

“Nah, fuck it. Call it Reconciliation Day. Or Purple Day.”

“Purple Day? Are you for real?” Church questions, head shaking. “That’s dumb as shit. How about Leonard Church Day? I like the sound of that.”

“Verity Day,” Wash suddenly says, sits up straighter, eyebrows raising. “That’s better.”

“I’m gonna get Kimball, pitch my idea.” Church waves and appears down in front of the Rebel leader, and Wash and Tucker both stick their necks out to look at the two together, Kimball’s ever-diplomatic expression transforming into Tucker’s never seen her wear; the most sombre of ones. Then, for a few moments, back and forth—Kimball even puts her helmet back on to speak to Doyle via radio—the concept is thrown around.

He is back. “She thinks it’s a great idea. Leonard Church Day it is.”

“Church, go suck a dick.”

“Okay, okay, she really likes Verity Day. ‘It’s the perfect word,’ she said,” Church imitates, contemptuously, using his hand to demonstrate her speaking. “She _also_ wants to hold a medal ceremony. They don’t have any, you know, actual _medals_ , but it’s the thought that counts.”

“Like the smoal you got me and Caboose for Christmas?”

“Hah, Kimball’s a great leader.”

“What’s smoal?” Wash asks, innocent.

“Lemme tell you about this great replacement gift for shitty subordinates…”

Tucker tunes out as best he can—it’s just a little bit annoying to see the fond smile on Wash’s face, a record for them, the way Wash nods at the right intervals and says _how thoughtful you are_ and even goes so far as to poke Tucker in the shoulder at one point.

“That’s the story of Christmas at Blue base.” Church appears on Wash’s shoulder. “I was the ghost of Christmas present.”

“Yeah, and you still fucking haunt us,” Tucker says.

“Yep. And, now that I can pretty much float around without having to drag Carolina everywhere,” Church begins ominously, staring right at Tucker, “I can watch you do all kinds of shit, Tucker. Think about that. You on the toilet, _boo, motherfucker._ ”

“You’re the creepiest fucking AI.”

“I think you were just threatened by a tiny little floating ball of light with an attitude, Tucker,” Wash says wryly.

“You’re both assholes and I hate you.”

“Yeah, love you too,” Church says, sniffling. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Fucking die, that’s what.”

“Aww, would you be sad?”

“I’m _out_.”

“You would be. You even complained like a little bitch when I didn’t say _goodbye_. Poor Tucker.”

“Don’t worry,” Wash says, with a tinge of sarcasm, standing and moving through Church, though he quickly floats out and looks up at the ex-Freelancer. “I looked after him.”

“I hate the goddamn fact the laps and squats helped,” Tucker murmurs between other mutterings of _stupid big Blue assholes_ and _I’m a Blue and probably an asshole, too_.

“I can see you improved your muscle work whilst here, anyway. Good on you.”

He watches Wash leave, without a limp in his step, and turns to Church.

“He’s pretty fond of your muscle work,” is the only comment on it Tucker receives.

“I’m a good soldier and shit.”

“Thought you were a lover, not a fighter?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Lovers are just more picky about what they fight for.”

“And I’m the philosopher. Wow, dude, don’t know what happened to you.”

He half-smiles, and eyes flick—only slightly—in the direction of where Wash went.

“Hoh oh, Tucker, man, whoa. No. It’s just a joke, right? You’re kidding me. You’re actually kidding me. What a fucking—”

“Church, do I need to tell you to shut the fuck up?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. I’m pretty sure Donut’s the straightest person in the room.”

“He probably is, you know.”

Church says something like _these assholes are who I try to keep alive day in day out,_ but Tucker only catches it, barely. And one final part Tucker would’ve missed if not already straining his ears: _worth it, anyway, stupid as shit friends. God._

Tucker chooses to hold out his hand, says, “So, you want a tour of the place, Church?”

“Maybe.”

“You know you do.”

“I might.”

“Come _on_.”

“Slot me in, then,” Church says, walking and balancing along the edge of the tray like a tightrope now, “Gotta ask Carolina, though.”

“She might wanna come.”

“Nah, more interested in Kimball. Sharing fighting techniques.”

Before they leave—to try and track Wash down, too—Kimball stops Tucker, asks to speak to him for a moment.

He swallows as they stand outside the mess hall, wind blowing steadily.

“Captain Lavernius Tucker,” she says, with a hint of honour to the way her words curl around Captain, “I want to, on behalf of the New Republic, thank you for your efforts, your diligence. For what you did I cannot repay. You are always welcome on Chorus. And I’m glad you got your friends back, especially your leader, Agent Washington. I can see why you spoke of him so highly, though I think you sorely underestimated Leonard Church.”

“Hey, Kimball,” Tucker says, outstretching his arms, inviting. “You know the saying, _we’re strongest as a united front_. Stuff you used to trumpet over dinner and shit.”

She arches an eyebrow but seems to be pleased. Peculiarly Tucker notes she's never been outside without her helmet on; a sign of shifting times?

“That’s how we get shit done.”

Then, as he walks off chattering to Church about where he’d caught Palomo trying to tie string end to end of the hall archway, he misses Agent Washington now reappearing beside Kimball, both looking on with the most impossible of fondest smiles.

“I could say they’re the worst soldiers I’ve ever met, but I’ve never seen such camaraderie. The kind that saves lives.” She crosses her arms, closes her eyes her eyes only briefly. “I understand, Agent Washington.” That’s when she turns to Wash, as rain starts to softly fall—the iron-smelling kind that was her childhood in a bottle—and amends that last sentence, “You deserve them.”

He doesn’t say anything but does raise his arm and salute her, and continues on to follow after his teammates.

-

“Yeah, Tucker, _underestimated me_ ,” Church says, bringing up Kimball’s statement for the third time. “What’d you do? Tell her the little AI had a tiny dick?”

“You probably do,” Wash says. He stops at the two stares. “I mean, you’re already small.”

“Did he just make a dick joke?” Church gasps theatrically. “Agent Motherfucking Cold Bastard Washington made a dick joke.”

In the dimly lit hallway, with rust peeling away at the corrugated steeling coverings, Tucker watches as Wash looks between him and Church, like _have I said something wrong_? and for a moment their surroundings mean nothing—the walls could be invested with termites for all Tucker cared. They possibly were.

“See! Wash is learning a thing or two from me, Church,” he says, his step a little lighter.

“I gotta admit, it was a pretty _weak_ dick joke.”

“What, like a _flaccid_ dick joke.”

“Tucker, remind me why I’m here.”

“Because they’re your friends,” Wash answers simply, noticing a door with _caBose & TUCKER caboose stop writing your name on shit _scribbled on with it in marker. “I don’t need to ask whose door this is.”

Tucker grins and shoves forward to open it, the familiar latch clicking and door swinging open—Palomo’s and Smith’s names weren’t carved into the door, but he immediately recognised the dumb shirt of his lieutenant’s and Smith’s boots sitting near their respective beds.

His bed and Caboose’s were still made, covers pressed so neatly they mustn’t have been touched for a while.

“All right, first things first.” Tucker raises his hands and points both index fingers at his two teammates, both standing stoically at the doorway. “No emotional stuff. No sad shit. This is my room and I’m not having you babies cry.”

“I was already tearing up,” Wash says, peeling off his helmet again, “You’ll have to give me a moment, Church.”

“Yeah, I think I get the feelin’ you’re gonna get _really_ wussy and shit, so I’ll just let you ladies have a moment and float around. See what you’ve got hiding in the closets,” Church hastily declares before disappearing through the walls, without a solitary wave.

Tucker turns to raise an eyebrow at Wash. “So it’s just us _alone_ —”

“Tucker, I swear to god, if you finish that sentence I’m leaving,” Wash cuts in, gently beginning to remove his armour after placing his Mark VI helmet down.

“Whatever,” Tucker mutters, copying the movement but with much more harshness. “So what’re we gonna do for Verity Day? Throw a big party?”

“I don’t think with the supplies we have now it would be feasible,” he answers, placing the gloves on Caboose’s metal shelf. “He doesn’t mind if I use this, does he?”

“Nah, probably gonna room with Church and Carolina, anyway.” Tucker laughs derisively. “Poor Carolina. She probably would get rid of Church just so Caboose would go away.”

“She’s quite fond of him.” The bed of the other Blue makes a small noise as Wash sits down.

“Caboose? Are you kidding?”

“Well, for one, Caboose isn’t all that bad. Mostly.”

“Caboose once tried to put my sword in the toaster back at Blood Gulch.”

This is where Wash slightly relents, nodding his head. “Okay, so he’s not that bad to Carolina.”

“I don’t think anybody has the balls to be bad to her.” Tucker jumps on the mattress to sit next to Wash, grinning as Wash swayed with the movement.

“I can name a few.”

“And they’re alive?”

“Not that I know of, no,” Wash says, turning and smirking.

“Look, if I’m being _honest,_ ” Tucker says after a small pause as Wash surveyed the room, “I actually kinda like Carolina.”

It’s worth saying that, when rewarded with a smile.

“No, okay, follow me here, she’s the only one more badass than me.”

“Oh, I see.” Wash nods his head. “But saying that won’t get you laid.”

“ _Hey_ , h-hey!” Tucker sputters, shoving his dumb leader with the stupid as shit grin. “I never said that. I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what I inferred.”

“Fuck you.”

“You can, if you want.”

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking cocky asshole after you win a fight.” Tucker scoots to the edge of the bed, childishly crosses his arms. Not like Wash _meant_ what he said.

“You’ll have to tell me how cocky.”

“Shut _up_ , Wash,” he says, then with a subtle glance decides to add, “Major cock.”

“Major Cock? Is that my new rank and name?”

“Yep. Major Cock, reporting for asshole duty.”

“I’m honoured,” Wash says, leaning a hand into the bed towards Tucker. “So what are you? Captain Cockthirsty?”

“I swear to fucking—dude, stop, this is freaking me out, you’re not supposed to be playing along,” Tucker comes close to shouting, barely an inside voice. “And don’t say that! _Church might be listening_.”

“And then he’ll never drop it.”

“It was two weeks before he stopped calling me a teenage mother _after_ he stopped freaking out about Junior.”

“That’s rude,” Wash says, voice sounding way too cheeky, one finger twirling around in the material next to his thigh, making indentations in the blanket.

“It _was,_ because if I learnt anything from that fucking experience, it’s that teenage moms have it fuckin’ _hard_.” He fake-sniffles for extra sympathy.

“How hard?”

“Don’t you—okay, Wash, get the fuck out,” Tucker commands, pointing to the door, “As a Captain of the Rebel Army, you have to get the fuck out.”

“Sir,” Wash jumps up, stands at mock-attention, “Anything at the call of Captain Cockthirsty.”

“Yep. You’re out.”

“I’ll just go see Kimball,” Wash says, enunciating each word with something Tucker’s going to call facetiousness. “I’m sure she also wants to know of your new name—”

“Hate you. So bad.”

He sits back down again, this time with an upturn of his lips Tucker wants to rub out. With a lot of things.

Like his _dick_.

“You shouldn’t be trying to piss off the guy who saved our asses,” Tucker says, carefully watching Wash. “Who knows what I might do.”

“Who _knows_.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Oh? I’m sorry,” Wash says, pinching his chin. “How can I make it up to you, Tucker?”

In that moment Tucker’s ready to ask for a blowjob. Or, you know, a _brojob_ , because bros give each other blowjobs. He’s also prepared to go and lock the door—he, knowing how the latch worked from all the time he used to need to himself, sometimes _not_ even masturbating, just wanting quiet in the evening.

“Blowjob,” he blurts out. “Give me a blowjob, Wash.”

“Okay.”

“Wait, what? Did you just say okay? Holy shit, I think I’m hallucinating.” He tucks his legs under his arms, then meekly says, “Are you gonna actually suck my dick? For real?”

“As long as there’s no ‘Agent Washington can suck my dick,’ and ‘He did actually suck it, everybody’, yes, actually.”

“No way.”

“What? Do you think I’m lying?” Wash says, dropping his head to Tucker’s almost-cowering one, “ _Lavernius_?”

It’s goddamn _sultry_ the way he says it—not angrily or brutally like the last. Wash’s hand comes up to Tucker’s cheek, trails up behind the shell of his ear, then opts to scoot closer, kiss right on Tucker’s jaw.

“I can do this,” Tucker says, now _much_ happier with what was happening, “Like, I have a doctorate in Love. Dr. Love, here to give his patient Major Cock some lovin’.”

Then moving his body all the way to the side, dragging Wash’s legs up, he adds, “Check out my muscles, Wash. Could lift you, I bet.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Wash whispers in Tucker’s ears and he _swears_ the tone Wash uses trying to be hot is the same as the one used to make him do laps. He’s not sure if it’s really, really hot, puts the exercise regimen into perspective, or is _really, really hot_ and exercise suddenly got _fucking_ good.

The kind of kiss Tucker gets then is the proper kind: very wet, very messy, _very_ suggestive and with enough tongue to fuel his sex jokes for _years_. The way Wash cups his jaw, like it’s a prize, a delicate gift in his hands is so gentle Tucker’s sure Donut’s got to him and he’s gonna cry, screw the effeminate Red. The way Wash kisses him like it’s something he wanted to do for a long time—Tucker heartily agrees they should’ve done this sooner, but end-of-planet disaster scenarios were in the way, so.

Then he pulls back only minimally, a string of saliva hanging in the small inch between their lips, and Tucker swears to god, crosses his heart and hopes to never die ‘cause he’s gonna be immortal, motherfuckers, Wash looks so attractive with wet lips.

“This isn’t fair, dude. Could you scale it in a bit?” Tucker says. “Like, _I’m_ supposed to be the best looking in the room.”

“I’ll try.”

He kisses him again.

“Try harder, asshole,” Tucker says, definitely not breathing heavy, no way.

“You know, you could’ve been honest.”

“Honest when?”

“About what the ‘tour’ might have entailed.”

“I didn’t plan this!” Tucker says, pulling back and holding on Wash’s bony and expectedly muscular shoulders, “Just, you know. Stuff happens.”

“I suppose so,” Wash sighs. “Are you taking the under suit off or am I?”

“Aw, do I have to?”

“It’s either that or I can’t—”

“Fine! Fine,” Tucker says, relenting, and with the haste of a guy about to get a fucking blowjob he strips off the Kevlar suit and haphazardly throws it to the ground. “What are you staring at?”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing. For another time,” Wash says. “Turn back around.”

“What, are you gonna sit at my feet? Shit.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Tucker lets a long _oh_ and on the bucket list he realises he missed one important thing:

Wash on his knees for Tucker, spreading his thighs.

Second thing, he also marks on the list:

Wash’s lips look great just on his face, smiling. Feel great on Tucker’s lips. Look the best around the tip of Tucker’s dick, absolutely. Trumps everything.

Especially in the manner he keeps bobbing his head up and down—sometimes painfully slowly, sometimes so fast Tucker wants to know what kind of training the Freelancers received—and holding eye contact with Tucker.

Yep. A+ blowjob of Tucker’s _life_.

-

“That’s not what I was expecting to walk in on.”

Okay, still A+ blowjob if Church hadn’t floated back in.

“No, I mean like, you guys really surprised me. Good job. I mean that, Wash.”

Wash sighs, having not yet moved from his position, though mouth unoccupied.

You know. Position that Tucker was very fond of. So he gripped Wash’s arms that were steadfast to the sides of the bed.

“Hmm, I might just go Carolina you left me inside your discarded armour. She won’t like that.”

“I mean, Church,” Tucker starts steadily, “If you go around telling people Wash gave me a brojob, then well, they’re just gonna make fun of you ‘cause you can’t get one.”

“Moronic comment aside, _the fuck’s a brojob?_ ”

Wash exhales a very long breath, signifying the longevity of the Blue and Red shenanigans he’s dealt with.

“A blowjob bros give each other.”

“Really.” Church’s figure hovers near the door.

“Yep.”

“I’m happy I’m at the angle where I can’t see your lap, Tucker. So tell me. What else can you turn into something bros do? Are you and Wash gonna cuddle up later and you’re gonna justify it like, _hey, we’re just friends, I only wanted to fuck you for platonic reasons_. Jesus Christ, Tucker.”

“Maybe.”

“See you later, Captain Cockthirsty,” Church says with a snigger.

“I fucking told you! I fucking told you he’d hear that part!” Tucker says, almost shouting, indignantly.

“He obviously didn’t hear the rest,” Wash says, still. “So are we finishing this?”

“Be my goddamn guest.”

Still A+.

“I’m just glad you came,” is what Wash murmurs into Tucker’s ear after that and he decides he likes this Freelancer/Blue leader-Captain working relationship.

-

“Palomo,” Tucker says, catching his lieutenant with the smuggest of grins near the showers, “You and Smith. Can you room with like, I don’t know, Bitters?”

“Oh, yeah! We’re gonna have a sleepover in one of the dead guy’s rooms. Kimball said we can keep whatever we want as long as we’re respectful!”

“We?”

“Us lieutenants.”

“Oh, god, don’t get Jensen knocked up. Pregnancy sucks _balls_.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I don’t think she’d wanna, you know, take a ride on my disco stick,” Palomo responds with an agreeing nod. “If you get my drift, sir.”

“Got it. Lame as fuck.”

“Thank you, sir!”

He fucking hates Palomo, but maybe a bit less because now he can push two of the camper beds together and he can brocuddle with Wash.

Score one for Lavernius Tucker.

-

“This is ridiculous,” Wash says, watching Tucker push what was Smith’s bed up against Tucker’s. “How is this going to be comfortable?”

“Because I say so.”

“I’m going to talk to Kimball.”

Tucker bounds forward and grabs Wash’s wrist. “No! No. Don’t ask for a double bed. Don’t. There’s none. Don’t talk to her.”

“Is this because you don’t want her to guess what you plan on?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

He watches Wash sigh—light of his life, that sigh—and envelopes Tucker in the most reassuring of hugs, god.

-

“If I may be truthful, Captains,” Kimball says in her office, speaking to her four men specifically, the other half and a bit of the Reds and Blues standing to the side. “I wasn’t ever completely sure this war would end in our favour—and I know this may not be the end, given the temporary truce—but I believe, and hope, that a common enemy as Charon Industries will unite us.” She turns, pointedly stares at Tucker. “Union is, as you agreed, Captain Tucker, what will keep us strong.

“Chorus is my home. And you extending your hands to protect my home, even now as you fulfilled your original objective, is more than I could ask for.”

“Eh,” Church says, projecting himself into a full form, standing at the same height as the Rebel leader, “It’s a piece of cake.”

“We are all pieces from the same cake! We are strong _together_ ,” Caboose triumphantly declares. “We are going to splatter in Mister Chair’s face!”

“Fuck yeah. Give him a fucking _pearl necklace_ ,” Tucker adds—surprisingly finding something _meaningful_ in Caboose’s words.

“Didn’t you give Wash one?” Church turns, asks. “I wasn’t there for the climax.”

“You fucking—”

“I’m still just a floating asshole, buddy, but nice job running into Kimball.”

“Always said he wasn’t just into chicks,” Grif adds, with a gleeful sigh.

“Neither are you,” Simmons deadpans.

-

“So we’ll have a meeting later,” Church says, standing in the middle of the mess hall table—which he seemed to enjoy, far too much, being the centre of attention. “But I think I’ve got some time for one more story.”

“Oh, oh, I wanna hear about the time you gave Tucker a handjob!” Palomo parrots, excitedly. “Wash mentioned it to me this morning—”

“Wash? _What the fuck_? I told you not to tell anybody that happened!” Tucker glares at the dumb Freelancer, who looks a little bit shameful. “Why the fuck did you tell _Palomo?_ ”

“I could have told him about the blow—”

“Okay, I’m done,” Tucker says, standing and raising his hands in defeat. “See you later, assholes.”

“I’m coming,” Wash says just as quickly as the action.

Between the group gathered at the table and the chuckles, Tucker’s so finished.

“Bet he’s coming,” Church finishes.

“Fuck you, you stupid fucking fairy.”

“You won’t be saying that when we take the Chairman down!” Then, appearing in front of Tucker’s unmoved form, adds, “Real proud of you, Tucker.”

“Thanks, dickhead.”

“No, I mean it. Great plan. Got laid. You must be having the time of your _life_.”

“I am! And I’m going to go get laid _again!_ ”

Wash glances between the pair, clears his throat, then, “He’s not wrong, Church.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, as always.  
> That is the fruit of the writing.


End file.
